


Cenhinen Bedr

by romanticalgirl



Category: Very Annie Mary (2001)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brothers be ye constant</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cenhinen Bedr

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sex Is Fun!](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/574994.html) Challenge-A-Thon Thing!
> 
> Originally posted 2-4-08

“It’s not as if that’s the way of things though, now is it?” Hob goes on for ages, chatting up customers as if they’d a one been out of the town for more than a quick walk to the pastures, as opposed to a grand trip to Cardiff or St. David’s. “You think you know something, and it’s something else entirely. As I told my mum and her best friend, Mardis, you never know what you know until you’re past knowing it.”

The women nod sagely as they pay, as if Hob’s said something of great importance. Nob’s not sure if it’s actually that anyone believes or trusts them or even really listens, so much as they’ll be damned to a quaint hell before they’d actually let on that what he and Hob do behind closed doors makes them more than a slight bit uncomfortable.

Not that he cares overmuch, to be honest. It’s him for Hob and Hob for him, and they decided that long ago before there were bitchy little brats and cunty little cousins, and it’s just as well. They’ve their shop and singing lessons and musicals and each other, and that’s more than most of the town can account for in their own lives.

He comes up behind Hob as the women leave and slips his hands on Hob’s hips, leaning in to kiss the tender skin at the base of his neck. Hob shivers and it’s lovely, and he can’t help but doing it again, reveling in the response. “Should close up shop, yeah?”

“Tis Saturday!” Hob shakes his head, turning in Nob’s loose grip and leaning back against the counter. The shop smells of photo processed paper and tobacco and sweets, and it’s the smell of Hob’s skin and the taste of it as well. Cheese bits and candyfloss and tea and biscuits on his skin like a snack Nob’s got the proper sweet tooth for. “You’ve gone daft. It’s the busiest day of the week.”

“Don’t much care.” He steps closer so that there’s little space left between them. “Let them find their bad habits elsewhere tonight. Want to lock the door.”

“And do what, you randy minx?”

“Well, that’s the gist of it, isn’t it?” His hands tighten on Hob’s hips. “Want to be alone.”

Hob fights his smile, going for stern and determined, as if he’s forgotten exactly what that does to Nob. “You can’t wait another three hours?”

“Can,” he admits, sliding his lower lip out into a pout. “Don’t want to.”

Hob shakes his head and laughs, leaning in to catch Nob’s lower lip between his teeth and suck on it. “You’re incorrigible. Right incorrigible. It’s a wonder we manage to survive with you demanding we close up shop and have sex all the time.”

The bell above the door jingles and the gasp from the prim Mrs. Ederweld fills the store, followed quickly by her rush to get out and the dead silence that follows. Nob bites the inside of his lip to hold in his laughter, faring far better than Hob who busts into a great chuckle.

“Oh, there’s to be a terrible sermon at chapel tomorrow, no doubt.”

“I blame you,” Nob informs him, struggling to keep his smile in check. He leans in and nuzzles Hob’s mouth, breathing the warm heat of air that slips past his lips. “Get me in all sorts of trouble, you do.”

“Like that time.” Hob kisses him, soft and light and full of promise. “Remember?”

“Saint David’s Day.” Nob nods and pulls back, moving from behind the counter to turn the open sign to closed and lock the door. He can hear someone jiggling the handle as he turns the lock, doesn’t bother to look as he pulls the shade. “Bare-arsed in the daffodils.”

“It could have been worse.” Hob’s looking at him with hot eyes and a smile, and Nob swallows and moves back to the counter, to the door leading up to their flat above the store.

“How’s that exactly?” He stands in the doorway and waits as Hob locks the cash drawer and moves toward him.

“Could have been someone other than Evan that caught us.” He reaches out and grabs the belt loops of Nob’s trousers and tugs him against him. “And he could have caught us ten minutes before.”

“Ten minutes before, hmm?” Nob licks at Hob’s parted lips and then kisses him, taking his time and sliding his leg between both of Hob’s, bringing them closer together. “It’s vague, my memory. Could show me again.”

“I’ve not got a single daffodil on me.” Hob’s voice is rough and breathless, thick and hot against Nob’s skin. “Except that tattoo you know where.”

“Still a bit vague.” Nob steps backwards, tugging Hob toward the stairs. “Really need reminding, I’m afraid.”

Hob follows, smiling a promise and a hint of laughter on his rough breaths. Nob turns and suddenly Hob rushes past him, and it’s a chase, hands and laughter and stumbling until they’re sprawled across the bed, a different kind of breathless. Hob leans in and kisses Nob, stroking his cheek with gentle fingers before settling across his thighs and sitting up.

“My lovely boy.” He unbuttons Nob’s shirt slowly, taking his time. There’s a spark of laughter in his dark eyes, made brighter by the burning hunger there as well. “Terribly sad that you don’t remember a thing.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t remember, just said it was vague.” Nob’s eyes threaten to close at the soft stroking of Hob’s fingers. “A blur of boy and yellow.”

“Boy, eh?” Hob pinches lightly and Nob arches up, the tight twist of his nipple sending a shot straight through to his groin. “Perhaps it’s not me you’re remembering at all then.”

“Perhaps not.” Nob teases softly. “Never forget you.”

“Oh, boyo.” It’s half threat and half laugh, whispered against his mouth as Hob leans down and kisses him, sharp and hungry. “Make you remember.”

“Please.” Nob arches up, his bare chest grazing Hob’s soft, worn shirt. Hob kisses him again, softer this time, and then suddenly they’re together, hot and hard and pressed against one another, melting together in their perfect two.

It’s like the chase up the stairs, only this time the hands are seeking, not shoving and the breath is labored with tension, not exertion. Nob’s fingers find the fastenings of Hob’s shirt and undo them, slip the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. He curves his legs over Hob’s calves and thrusts upward, holding them tight together.

“Smells nothing of crushed daffodils,” Hob whispers as he nibbles at Nob’s ear. He works a hand between them and undoes Nob’s trousers, pushing them out of the way as best he can with them pressed so close.

Nob eases his legs away so that Hob can pull back and undo his own trousers, pushing them off onto the floor. Nob arches up and shoves his down as well, reaching for the things no one talks about in the drawer beside the bed and watching as his love, his lover, looks down at him. Hob smiles and Nob shakes his head, sitting up and opening the bottle and pouring the clear liquid in his hand, sliding it along Hob’s thick erection. “Every time smells of crushed daffodils.”

Hob kisses him, swift and sure, and pushes him back onto the bed, easing inside him with slow, shallow thrusts that eventually change and grow longer, harder and deeper. They stop bothering with English and speak Welsh to each other, whispering flowery endearments and real names like secret words that only they share. Eventually words stop, giving way to gasps and groans and desperate need, culminating in a low rumble of heat that Hob buries deep with a shudder and a shiver of hot breath.

They keep moving together, Hob’s hand sliding between them to stroke Nob’s erection, his hand tight in the small space between them. It doesn’t take long, and the short time it does take is spent in shivered need with Nob’s fingers tracing the outline of a daffodil tattooed on Hob’s right hip. He comes, hot and pulsing against the grip of Hob’s fingers and remembers how to breathe the air that Hob gives him.

After a few moments, Nob shivers and wraps himself around Hob, arms and legs and everything he can manage. “Oh, boyo.” It’s an echo of Hob himself, but spoken with nothing but affection.

“Need to go down and open the shop again,” Hob murmurs against Nob’s jaw, tracing the skin with his tongue, teasing it with his teeth.

“Is almost closing time anyway,” Nob pouts, easing his grip and letting Hob slide away. “Why do we need to go back?”

“Because I need a fag and they’re all downstairs.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to reopen.” Nob slides his hand across the rumpled sheets and snuggles down against the pillow. “Could go get your fags and come back to bed.”

“I could, suppose.” Hob smiles. “Don’t suppose you’ll forget me while I’m gone?”

“Shouldn’t,” Nob assures him, smiling wickedly. “But you never know. Might need you to refresh my memory again.”  



End file.
